


every single one of your ridiculous lies

by betony



Series: The World Inverted Yet Again [2]
Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Fluff, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/pseuds/betony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If you try to compare any hypothetical relationship between us to <i>Twilight,</i> I really will take your hand off,” Irene says pleasantly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every single one of your ridiculous lies

**Author's Note:**

> Title, of course, from _King of Attolia_ by Megan Whalen Turner, p. 218 (HarperCollins).

“Gen,” tries Curtis one last time, “This is a really, really stupid idea.” 

As has been the case with every other really, really stupid idea Gen has ever had, Gen ignores him. Instead his best friend keeps on searching the ground for another stone that means his specifications. It might be an easier task if Curtis shone the flashlight to provide some illumination on this moonless night, but he won’t. He already feels like enough of an enabler just being here instead of doing the sensible thing fifteen minutes ago and ignoring Gen’s text message to meet him at this specific address. 

“How do you even know this is her room?” Curtis goes on as Gen gets up again, hefting a fistful of rocks in his hand. “You don’t want to get her dad’s by accident instead and–Gen! Wait, don’t—“ 

Too late. Gen’s hurled the first rock through the air, and Curtis, horrified, watches its graceful arc up to the second-story window. No response follows, but before Curtis can even think to mumble, “Oh well, we tried, now let’s go home,” Gen throws a second stone up to clatter against the glass. 

And then Irene appears, silhouetted against the warm golden light of her bedroom. Despite himself, Curtis understands Gen’s fascination with her; she is, by anyone’s standards, incredibly beautiful. It’s just that she’s pee-in-your-pants terrifying at the same time. 

She looks down at the two of them for a moment of cool appraisal, and by then Gen is already clambering up the side of the mansion, using a long trellis of ivy and the rough edges of brick as handholds. Curtis, though, is perfectly happy to wait down below and at least try to make sure they don't get arrested for trespassing. 

By the time Gen makes it all the way to her, Irene has slid the windowpane up. “You,” she says, as if she had only bumped into Gen outside second-period algebra, “What are you doing here?” 

“Came to see you,” Gen chirps, hooking his forearm over the windowsill, and seriously, is Curtis the only one here who realizes there are more comfortable places to have a conversation? “By the way, you’re looking lovely tonight.” 

“This really isn’t a good time,” Irene says, and slams the window back down. Gen yelps, yanking his hand back only a second before it would have been too late. 

“You almost crushed my hand!” He sounds so wounded Irene takes pity on him and opens the window again; or maybe she’s just tired of him making faces at her through the glass. 

“You looked up where I live,” she says in the most dangerous voice Curtis has ever heard, “climbed all the way up to my window, and now you’re going to _complain_ about it when I throw you out?” 

“Oh, come on, it’s romantic! Like Romeo and Juliet, or, or Edward and Bel—“ 

“If you try to compare any hypothetical relationship between us to _Twilight,_ I really will take your hand off,” Irene says pleasantly.

“Point taken,” Gen tells her meekly. “Now will you let me in?” 

“No,” says Irene. “Why are you here?” 

Gen lets out the drawn-out sigh of a martyr, but rummages through his pockets before pulling out a nondescript black ring box. One-handed, he snaps it open to reveal a small pearl ring set against a satin cushion that he holds out towards Irene. 

For one dreadful moment, Curtis assumes Gen’s lost his mind and is proposing, in mid-air, to a junior he can’t have known for more than a week. Irene, obviously, will murder Gen in response, and naturally Gen won’t have the consideration to die peacefully, and that’ll leave only Curtis to explain the mess to the Dean—or worse, to _Helen_. 

Fortunately, when Gen speaks at last, no thoughts of marriage, or going steady, or even romance at all are mentioned. 

“I just wanted to know if this was the right one.” 

Irene’s face goes blank. “Yes,” she says in a distant voice, “yes, this was— this _is_ one of them. I remember it.” 

She snatches the box from him, locks it into one of her bottom drawers, and doesn’t give him as much as a “thank you” as she sweeps back to the window. Privately, though, Curtis suspects she isn’t the sort of girl to thank _anyone_ ; even if she were, Gen, if his clear delight at Irene’s confirmation is any sign, wouldn't need to hear it anyway. 

“Good!” says Gen, “I’ll see you next week, then. Keep your window open for me!”” And, as Irene gapes, he leans forward to kiss her on the cheek before sliding down to the grass below. 

Irene grits her teeth before slamming her window down and drawing the curtains closed for good measure. Curtis, recognizing the signs of those driven by Gen to justifiable homicide, retreats and makes sure to give her a wide berth even at school.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Irene's window is not in fact open the next week. Gen is there, though, nervously palming another velvet box in his hands, with Curtis behind him, still not entirely sure why he fell for Gen's garbled explanations a second time.

Through the window, they can both see Irene sitting at the desk with a tall, blond young man, who seems to be talking rapidly about something. Irene nods once in a while, and lets the stranger hold her hand in his own, but she’s biting her lip and looking around the room as though she’s waiting for something. 

Once she catches a glimpse of Gen hovering at the window, her expression goes cautiously blank, and then uncharacteristically soft as she leans to her blond friend and whispers something in his ear. He listens, nods, and squeezes her hand a final time before—thank goodness!—standing up and walking out of the room. 

Irene shuts the door behind him and comes over to let them both in through the window. 

“Who was that?” Curtis dares to ask once they’re inside, because Gen won’t and will sulk about it for hours instead. 

“No one,” Irene says, frowning at Gen, who’s already draped himself over Irene’s bed like it’s his own house, “just Aaron—he’s an old…family friend.” 

“That wasn’t what you were calling him,” Gen says through an affected yawn; Curtis remembers suddenly that some quirk of fate had made Gen very, very good at reading lips. 

“Junior,” Irene explains through gritted teeth. “He’s named after his father, so we all call him Junior.” 

“Imagine that,” Curtis says desperately. 

“He’s in love with you,” adds Gen casually, idly twirling one of Irene’s discarded hairpins. 

Irene looks mystified. “I beg your pardon?” 

“We-ll, it might only be a desperate crush, but still.” 

“It’s not like that at all!” Irene snaps, hot anger rapidly replacing confusion. “We’ve been friends since we were young, and he was worried since he hadn’t heard from me—” 

Gen snorts. “And I’ve known Helen since we were in diapers, and you won’t catch me ever gawking at her like that the way _Junior_ does at you.” 

“No more than I gawk,” retorts Irene, which seems to be not at all what she meant, because she goes slightly pink and clarifies, “At him, I mean.” 

Which, considering how Gen looks even more like a self-satisfied cat, was exactly the wrong thing to say. He pulls out another jewelry box, longer and thinner this time, and hands it to Irene. She doesn’t open it this time, but Gen bragged about this one: Curtis already knows it contains a long sleek sapphire bracelet. 

”I don’t,” Irene insists as she takes it and locks it away. Gen only keeps on smiling. Curtis only wishes he could disappear. 

* * *

After that, Curtis starts ignoring Gen’s midnight texts. Actually it’s good for his character. If nothing else, he ends up having to talk his way out of far fewer mishaps and starts to think he might actually make it to junior year without accruing a juvenile criminal record. 

It’s just bad luck that takes him past the chemistry classroom after second period. He has a physics exam in about forty-five minutes, and he’s looking for a quiet place to study. At first he thinks the room is deserted—no one has chemistry fourth period, and it’s certainly quieter than the library—but then he sees the couple sitting in the corner, their backs to him. 

She’s holding a pair of amber earrings shaped like….bees? As she lifts them higher so that they catch the light, he can see that they _are_ bees, shaped in fact exactly like that necklace Irene always wears. 

Curtis is uncomfortably certain they’ll turn around at any moment. Miraculously they don’t, possibly since they’re distracted by their whispered conversation. 

“She was wearing them the night she was killed,” Irene is saying thickly. It takes him a minute to realize that’s because she’s that close to crying. “I wanted to see them so badly, to wear them, and she said I couldn’t, not until she was back from the show. So I waited, and waited, and only the detectives came.” 

Gen says nothing. 

“They gave me back her personal effects after they closed the investigation, and then my father found them and—you know the rest. Probably better than I do, in fact.” She pauses. “I never thought I’d see them again.” 

Gen still doesn’t say anything, but he leans over to put his arms around her. Irene shudders and leans into the embrace. 

“Thank you,” she whispers into his chest. 

Still unable to look away from Gen and Irene, clinging to each other desperately. Curtis backs out of the room like his life depends on it. If Irene catches him, he rather thinks it does. 

* * *

The next day, Gen and Irene are a couple. They don’t kiss, or hold hands, or even seem to do anything but be annoying and annoyed, respectively; but there’s no getting around the fact that they are, unquestionably, together. As a whole, the student body remains confused as to whether Gen has lost his mind, or Irene hers, or both of them, at the same time, in some sinister tangle. 

Helen corners Gen’s best friend at his locker after lunch, determined to get some answers. “How long,” she snaps, “has _this_ been going on?” 

“You mean you didn’t know?” 

Helen gives him a look that speaks volumes. Most of these volumes say things along the lines of: _Curtis, have you by any chance forgotten that I happen to be hall monitor and the headmaster’s daughter?_

But this is, after all, one of those (very,very) rare moments where the few advantages of being Gen’s best friend become clear. “I thought it was pretty obvious,” Curtis says loftily, “for those with eyes to see.” 

The look of exasperation mixed with begrudging respect on her face is worth it all.


End file.
